He toasted her again. “Well, let’s find it first. Then we can worry about how to spend it.”
“Killjoy.”
Drake held his beer up to the light and peered through the final dregs. “You think he’s got any more of these cold ones back there?”
She gave him another long, appraising look, and stood. “I’ll ask.”
An hour later and two more beers apiece, they were feeling a glow almost as warm as the night air. Drake paid and they left the bar, the streets dark except for an occasional porch light and an intermittent glow from the moon as it silvered the surface of the river. They ambled along the waterfront in silence, two stray dogs ahead of them scavenging for scraps, and when they neared the halfway point to the hotel, Drake took Allie’s hand and pulled her toward him. He stopped and drew her into his arms and kissed her. She pushed away initially, but then responded in kind, her fingers entwined in his hair as she met his urgency with her own.
Heavy footsteps sounded from the direction of the bar. Drake’s eyes opened and he swiveled toward the sound. Three figures were approaching, sticking to the shadows. Drake disengaged from Allie and whispered in her ear.
“This could be trouble. Go back to the hotel. Now.”
“No. Remember, we’re supposed to avoid any drama. I’m not leaving without you.”
She began walking hurriedly toward the familiar cross street a hundred and fifty yards up the bank, and Drake accompanied her. The footsteps increased their pace behind them, and then broke into a run.
“Go on. Move. I’ll slow them down. You don’t want to get raped, Allie. All they can do is rob me.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the last of his American cash and handed it to her. “Quick. Get to the hotel and tell Jack I’m in trouble. Get going.”
Her eyes caught the moonlight and he could see fear in them. Then she was running, fortunately faster than the approaching footfalls behind him. He watched as she sprinted down the street, and turned when he judged that whoever was giving chase was ten yards away.
The three men were nothing like what he’d been expecting, which had been laborers from the bar, or possibly indigents looking for easy prey in a frontier town. Instead, the men were obviously Caucasian, well groomed, wearing reasonably expensive tropical-weight clothes. A tickle of fear crept up his spine as his eyes met those of the man in the lead — the cold, expressionless eyes of a predator.
Drake looked for weapons, but didn’t see any. That was good. He might be able to take them with nothing but hand-to-hand, especially after all the training. He turned slightly and began bouncing on the balls of his feet as he prepared for their first assault.
The lead man, easily in his fifties, shook his head. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Ramsey.”
Drake maintained his stance, but the unaccented English threw him. He’d been expecting…Russian. This man sounded American. He squinted at them. “You know who I am. What do you want?”
The two other men drew abreast of the first and Drake stiffened. The speaker held out a hand to hold them back. When he answered, his words were measured, his tone reasonable.
“To talk. We have a proposition for you.”
“I see. Why don’t we start with who you are, and how you know who I am?” Drake countered.
The man shrugged. “Names are unimportant, but you can call me Gus if you like. As to how I know who you are, that’s equally unimportant. Let’s just say that we’ve been watching you for some time.”
“Very dramatic and mysterious, Gus, but not an answer.”
“Perhaps. More importantly, we know why you’re here. We know your history, and we know what you’re after.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed. “You may. Or you may be bluffing.”
“Hardly. You’ll find we don’t bluff.”
“We. Again with the we. Who’s we?”
“Let’s just say that we represent a powerful organization that shares the same interest you do.”
“Could you be any more vague?” Drake asked, stalling for time. Allie would be back at the hotel by now. Given a few minutes to rouse Jack and for him to get dressed, Drake needed to buy himself four to five minutes, tops, before the cavalry came over the hill.
“Fine. We’re with the Central Intelligence Agency.” Gus paused for a moment to allow his words to sink in. “You haven’t asked about the proposal.”
“Maybe it’s because I don’t have important discussions while outnumbered three to one in dark alleys by people claiming to be American spooks.”
“This is hardly an alley. In any event, we’re interested in getting your assistance with a matter we believe you can help with. And we can guarantee your safety if we work together.”
“Work together? Guarantee my safety? The CIA wants me to work with them, and had to come to the armpit of Peru to ask me?”
“I’m up to speed on the regrettable story of your father, Mr. Ramsey. I’m also aware that the same adversaries who were responsible for his death are closing in on your location and will be actively pursuing you.”
Drake tried to blink away the fogginess from the beer. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“We want the journal, young man.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gus’s tone hardened. “Stop playing dumb. We want the journal.”
“I don’t have it.”
Gus didn’t flinch, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“I haven’t broken any laws, and I’m not guilty of anything,” Drake countered.
Gus gave an impatient shake of his head. “Drake, we’d like you to work with us. This is a matter that we’ve been pursuing for over twenty years.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Maybe that’s because you don’t know what you’ve gotten into. Drake, does the journal mention a man named Palenko?” Gus watched Drake’s eyes for a reaction and saw nothing. “Your father was working with us when he went into the jungle the last time, you know.”
“Working with you? Why?”
“He discovered a connection between Paititi and the Soviets. He met a Peruvian who’d been treated for congestive heart failure in the same hospital room as a Russian who was dying of encephalitis. A Russian who claimed to have lived in Paititi for two years.”
“What? And he believed that?”
“Aren’t you wondering why Russians are involved in this?” Gus asked softly.
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“What I’m about to say is classified, do you understand? Never to be repeated.”
“Do I have to sign something?”
“Believe me, we’ll know if you talk.” Gus eyed him. “At the end of the Cold War, a brilliant but unbalanced Soviet scientist — Grigor Palenko, one of the regime’s top weapons developers — left Russia, taking with him a container of some ore he’d mined from a meteor he’d discovered in the Peruvian jungle decades before. He believed an element in the ore could be used to create new kinds of weapons of mass destruction; or if used for peaceful applications, might accommodate most of the world’s energy needs. He’d spent years working to extract the element and refine it, and had created a theoretical technology that he believed had the potential to change the world order.”
“What does that have to do with the journal, or my father? Or me, for that matter?”
“Palenko had been consumed by two passions in life: developing that technology and the legend of Paititi. But as the Berlin wall crumbled, it became obvious to him that Russia was no longer safe, and that he’d be persecuted by political enemies ascending to power. He slipped out of the country with the only twenty-four pounds of the element in existence, accompanied by several cronies, determined to locate Paititi and fund the development of his ultimate invention — the equivalent of cold fusion.”